


A Tune for Every Occasion

by firethesound



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-10
Updated: 2009-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:07:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firethesound/pseuds/firethesound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry woke alone to the soft sound of piano music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tune for Every Occasion

Though Harry had gone to bed with Draco, he woke up alone. It took several minutes of groping for his lover in the darkness for his sleep-fogged mind to accept this fact. Draco's side of the bed was cold, indicating he'd been gone for some time. Harry rolled over and collected his glasses and wand from the bedside table. He placed the former on his nose while using the latter to cast a tempus charm. A little before three in the morning. Harry frowned to himself and sat up.

"Draco?" he called, his voice falling hollow and flat in the darkness around him.

He strained for a response, but none came. But in the distance, faint sounds of piano music came to him, so soft that he couldn't hear it over the soft sound of his own breathing. Harry held his breath and cocked his head to the side, focusing. Then he swung his legs to the floor and left his bed. Technically it was Draco's bed; everything in the Manor belonged to Draco. But after sharing it for seven months, Harry had come to think of it as his, too.

They'd left the windows open in their haste to tumble into bed together, and the temperature had plummeted overnight. The chilly breeze raised gooseflesh on Harry's arms and chest, and he paused to pluck his shirt from where he'd discarded it on the floor earlier that evening. He slipped it on, but didn't bother to fasten the buttons. He pulled the door open and moved out into the hallway.

The piano music was slightly louder out here. Harry no longer had to hold his breath to hear it. He paused just outside his bedroom door, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his blue plaid flannel pajama bottoms to straighten them on his hips, then set off down the hall, his bare feet making no sound on the luxurious carpet of the hallway.

He allowed the soft, sweet melody to lead him down the stairs and to the foyer. The music was clearly audible down here, though still quiet and muffled by distance. Harry followed it to the great doors of the grand Malfoy ballroom. The doors were shut, and the music came from beyond them. Hesitating, Harry grasped the brass knob and eased the door open, entering slowly.

Devoid of guests and decorations, the ballroom was cavernous, and lit only by a fire in one of the massive fireplaces that dotted the walls. The flame set the parquet floor glowing warmly, but did little to dispel the shadows that clung to the ceilings and walls. In the corner nearest the lit fireplace sat a concert grand, nine feet of polished black wood. And in front of the concert grand sat Draco, clad only in a pair of black silk pajama bottoms.

The firelight glowed softly from his blond hair, and the smooth skin of his back and shoulders was as pale as the ivory keys over which his slender fingers glided. Harry was lost for a moment, watching the gentle sway of Draco's body as he played, his senses overwhelmed by how lovely Draco looked lost in the music he was creating. The haunting melody washed over Harry, sending tingles up and down his spine.

Harry stood, scarcely breathing, until Draco's hands stilled above the keys, and the last notes of the piece faded from the air.

"That was beautiful." Harry's voice was scarcely above a whisper, and he wasn't aware he'd spoken aloud until Draco started and twisted around to see him.

Seeing it was only Harry, he relaxed again, his face flushing.

"I didn't know you played," Harry said, crossing the room.

Draco shrugged one shoulder. "Mother insisted."

His features were relaxed, and Harry found himself in one of those rare moments where Draco's eyes were unguarded. Even now, after all they'd been through and how long they'd been together, there were walls up around Draco, heavy and imposing. Every once in a while they would slip and afford Harry a tempting glimpse of the tender and delicate things on the other side. This side of Draco, this man who sat in the firelight at three in the morning and played tender melodies to a vacant ballroom, was a stranger to Harry. He knew that Draco had dozens of facets, hundreds of little secrets, and he craved to eventually know each and every one.

Unwilling to let this opportunity pass, he gently pressed, "Did she teach you?"

Draco gave a gentle snort of derision. "Certainly not. I'm a Malfoy, after all. I had the best instructors Galleons could buy. But she would sometimes show me a thing or two. She played beautifully, herself." His voice grew wistful, and his right hand idly picked out the bare tune of the melody he'd just been playing. "The lessons began when I was five. Mother and Father had a huge row about it. He thought that playing the piano was a womanly pastime, and he wouldn't hear of his only son spending his free time as such. But in the end Mother won. She was very accomplished herself, so vibrant and passionate when she played, and she wanted to pass that passion on to me. Grandmother Black had all of her daughters learn, but Mother was the only one who enjoyed it enough to continue when she was grown." His gaze grew distant and his voice grew softer as he lost himself in memory. "I remember when I was very young and Mother would take me to visit her. She would always ask me to play Beethoven. She said I had a beautiful touch. Said no one could play Fur Elise the way I could. I'm sure she was only humoring me; I was only eight or nine. But at the time it was the most wonderful compliment..."

Harry thought of Grimmauld Place, and of the great hulking piano that crouched in the living room. He couldn't imagine the bitter old woman in the portrait above it humoring her grandson with gracious compliments, or looking on fondly as he played a favorite tune at her request. But he could easily imagine a small Draco perched on the pianostool before that intricately carved monstrosity, coaxing sweet melodies from the ancient ivory keys.

"Will you play it again for me?"

"Which? Fur Elise or the one you walked in on?"

Harry had only wanted to hear the beginning of the one that had roused him from sleep, but he said, "Both."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Aren't we greedy?"

He held Harry's eyes a moment longer, and just when Harry thought that Draco would refuse, he smiled and shrugged again before returning his attention to the keys. He began to play, but he held his arms and spine stiffly. Gradually, as the music continued, he relaxed, the tension swept away in the stream of notes. Soon he lost himself in the chords again. Harry watched the smooth glide of the muscles in Draco's back, watched his long slender fingers darting over the keyboard, watched the enraptured expression on his face, as if Harry and the rest of the world had suddenly ceased to exist to him. When he finished the first, ending in a warm chord that hung on the air, he barely paused before beginning the piece Harry had caught just the end of. Draco continued to play, delicate fingers on the keys teasing the haunting melody from the exposed strings, tiny hammers rising and falling in ripples at his command, until finally he reached the end. Draco glanced up at Harry, cheeks pink.

"That was lovely," Harry said softly.

"Chopin."

"Huh?"

"Chopin," Draco repeated. "That was Chopin's Nocturne in B-flat Minor I was just playing." He paused, and smiled fondly at Harry. "Not that I'd really expected you to know that, you uncultured swine."

The smile and the warm tone of Draco's voice did something funny to Harry's insides. Even after all this time, it was still so rare to see Draco's mouth curve in anything other than a sneer or a wry grimace of amusement. These unexpected smiles made his ribs feel too tight for his swelling heart, and weakened his knees. Harry sat down on the bench beside Draco, facing away from the keyboard, lest his treacherous knees betray him completely. If he fell over while doing nothing other than standing still, Draco would never let him hear the end of it.

"What else can you play?" he asked to fill the silence.

"Oh, lots of things," Draco said with a touch of his old arrogance. "But it depends on my mood." His hands skipped along the keys, moving apart until they ended in a crashing minor chord that send shivers up Harry's spine. "Different composers are better at different times, I think."

"Like what?"

"Well," Draco said, his right hand still wandering idly along the keys, plucking out a vague melody. "There's Mozart for when I feel anxious. I play DeBussy when I feel calm, and Joplin when I am cheerful, though I had to hide that from Mother. She never did approve of Joplin. And for when I feel passionate, there are the operas." He paused and sighed. "I simply adore _Carmen_."

"Who's Carmen?" Harry asked as Draco trailed off.

He chuckled. "Is there no end to the depths of your unsophistication? _Carmen_ is an opera." His right hand paused in its wandering to join the left in playing a few bars.

Harry nodded. The melody sounded familiar to him. "I've heard it."

"Lovely to see you're not completely hopeless."

"What else do you play?" Harry asked, ignoring the mild barb.

"Hm. There's Bach for when I feel restless, and I play Liszt when I'm upset over something. His works are gorgeous, but very difficult. I focus so much on the piece that I forget about what upset me in the first place, at least while I'm playing. And then there's Beethoven."

"What you played for me? The first one that your grandmother liked?"

"Yes, that was him." Draco nodded and smiled. "Him I save for only the best of my moods, when I am so calm and content that I can't think of a single thing about my life I'd like to change."

"And what about Chopin?" Harry asked. He was curious what mood Draco would match to that music.

Draco thought for a moment. "Energetic, for his waltzes. When the mood strikes, I can play the Minute Waltz in close to the same amount of time." He smirked. "Drove my instructors near round the bend with that. When I was younger I was foolish enough to think that the name was how long it should take to finish." He paused and sighed, staring out the front windows of the ballroom, and Harry followed his gaze. The pale moonlight drenched the lawn in silver, and the stars shone brightly. Draco gave another little sigh, just a quiet exhalation. "But for nights like this, when it's quiet and I feel melancholy, there's nothing quite like his Nocturnes." Draco's fingers abruptly left the keyboard. "I'm sorry to have awoken you. Let's go on back to bed."

"No need, if you don't want to. I'm already awake now." Harry searched Draco's face, but his lover's features had closed again. The walls were back, his eyes no longer warm and gentle. Harry couldn't read a thing in that piercing grey stare, or in the thin draw of his lips. "Why are you melancholy?" he asked softly.

Draco waved a hand. "Just one of those things. Too many old memories cluttering up my mind. The music's helped, some. At least enough that I should be able to fall back asleep." He didn't seem aware that his hands had drifted back to the keys.

"I'd love to hear you keep playing."

Draco hesitated, his fingers gently stroking the ivory. Long moments of silence stretched between them before he replied, "Well. If you insist."

Harry stood up again so he wouldn't be in Draco's way as he began to play. While this song lacked the haunting air that the first song had, it was delicate and drowsy and peaceful, and Harry assumed it was another nocturne. Draco suddenly stopped playing after only a few minutes, breaking off mid-run, his fingers lingering over the keys for only a few seconds before he began another tune. This one was a slow and stately melody that flowed from Draco's fingers, through mechanics of the piano to the strings, vibrating and filling the large room. His eyes drifted half-shut, and his lips curved up in a serene little half-smile. And after the first couple of lines, Harry, uncultured swine though he was, could recognize the Moonlight Sonata.

And in that moment, he couldn't think of a thing he wanted to change, either.


End file.
